


Mean it

by jakrster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dinner at Holmes, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Fluff and Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Protective Mycroft, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24981343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jakrster/pseuds/jakrster
Summary: Mycroft intends for his little brother to attend their mother's sixty-fourth birthday dinner.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story takes place somewhere in season 2.
> 
> It was supposed to be a one-shot at the beginning and unsurprisingly (ahem, ahem) it won't be. I thought about this story before I saw the HLV Christmas dinner at Sherlock and Mycroft's parents' house. My brain was telling me how the idea of a family meal could go awry with a Mystrade and a Johnlock around the table.

Sitting comfortably on one of the mahogany chairs around the table - made of the same material whose style was reminiscent of the Victorian era – Mycroft Holmes sipped his Darjeeling tea while reading The Times with a distracted eye. He glanced over the pages of the newspaper, enjoying that moment when his mind did not yet need to be occupied with a thousand and one problems. The few morning minutes of peace and quiet were essential to him: he could drink his tea hot, not cold, because he had to deal with an unpredictable and thorny situation in the moment, in peace and quiet.

The silence of his luxurious apartment in the English district of Nothing Hill was broken when footsteps came from upstairs. Imperceptible, of course, but Mycroft heard them perfectly well. Dressed in an elegant three-piece petrol blue suit with gold shirt buttons, he did not raise his head, hardly surprised by the sound. His long legs unfolded under the table – as quietly as a cat would have done – as the footsteps reached the stairs.

The footsteps were heavy _, not heavy enough for the feet to be put on by shoes, probably slippers_ , which indicated the person's somewhat sleepy state. His footsteps were slightly claudified from time to time, a sign of an injury to the leg – _recent, no doubt_. However, despite his condition, the person did not encounter any floorboards that cracked slightly under his weight, _a person who knew this staircase by heart_. Hands were clinging to the handrail of the staircase and touching some of the metal bars a few times. A cloth – a dressing gown – brushed against the floor. The politician raised his head only thirty seconds, perfectly timed, before the person crossed the threshold of the door.

Mycroft would have had no need to dwell on all these details in order to guess the identity of the person who would enter – he glanced at the phone in his hand – ten seconds. He knew all these details by heart. He knew the man approaching by heart. The eyebrows of the eldest Holmes frowned as Gregory Lestrade entered the room. His silver hair was a mess, his hand was distractedly rubbing his left eye, he was indeed wearing slippers, Mycroft's apparently, and the policeman had put on a robe over his pyjamas: a large grey sweater and navy blue trousers with forest green stripes.

Another morning, the politician would have enjoyed the view and would have done nothing to hide his interest in this most charming spectacle. The representative of the English government could have shamelessly killed to be able to admire the sleepy look on Gregory's face every morning.

"You're limping, Gregory." said the politician, without preamble.

The inspector stopped in the middle of his walk across the room. He ran one hand over his beard of a few days and sighed.

"Good morning to you too." he commented, trying to delay the bombs his companion would throw at him.

"Good morning, if you want it that much." Even in another room the inspector could have heard Mycroft's barely contained sniff perfectly. "You're limping."

The gray-haired man closed his eyes in an attempt to repress a grimace and continued his journey to the other room in order to reach the kitchen of the apartment. It was too early for a confrontation about the condition of his right leg. No. It was too early for a confrontation with Mycroft Holmes about his physical condition – especially on that subject, by the way. The politician would be perfectly capable of forcing him to consult a doctor to check the state of his leg, even if he told him twenty times that there was no problem.

The government official dipped his lips in the hot liquid of his tea, while his eyes remained planted on the door frame behind which his companion had just disappeared. Without any scruples. His mouth twisted slightly as he put his cup back on the table. Farewell minutes of quiet.

The policeman reappeared a few minutes later, a plate in which toast with marmalade on it balanced his footsteps, and a cup of English Breakfast. He put them down on the table with a bang and sat down in front of Mycroft and put a hand on the newspaper.

"Are you done with it?"

The politician's hand was placed on the newspaper to prevent him from shooting at it.

"If you tell me exactly what happened to your leg, I guess."

"Seriously, Mycroft? Blackmail with a newspaper?"

"By refusing to answer me, you're taking precious minutes off my mind, so I guess I can take away the childish pleasure of doing that bloody crossword puzzle you love to do."

Greg bit his lower lip to avoid bursting out laughing at the disdainful look on his companion's face, referring to his habit of filling in the boxes in the Times crossword puzzle. A habit that he liked all the more when he did it in front of Mycroft. Mycroft would spend the thirty minutes it took the inspector to find the answers by sighing – or blowing the answers out of his mouth by giving further details to the definitions, or pronouncing them in anagrams.

Doing the crossword puzzle without him was much less fun.

"Does it worry you that much?"

The politician twisted his gaze into his companion's, but could not, however, prevent himself from doing so in a caricatured manner. Of course, he was worried. Mycroft Holmes was always worried: about his idiot brother or the policeman in front of him. Greg swallowed a sip of tea to try to reduce the knot that was forming in his stomach: to see that the man, who probably ruled the whole nation, attached such importance to him would never cease to delight him.

"All right." he consented. Mycroft's lips curled with a satisfied smile. "But," he said. The politician's mouth slumped weakly. "But you won't make me go to the Barts. You won't invent a mission to some obscure hospital in this country to get me treated – _because, as I said, it's nothing_. You will not make me come to your office this afternoon, which you will have turned into an X-ray room beforehand. You are not going to go out and implement a decree to bring the death penalty back to this country to be imposed on the person who - in short, you are not going to overreact. Are we agreed?"

Mycroft had a grin on his face as if the whole thing was utterly ridiculous.

"I never overreact."

"Oh, yeah?" Lestrade eyebrowed. "And putting Julia Brown on the world's Most Wanted list for the simple reason that she was in my office for five minutes with the curtains closed isn't what you call overreacting?"

"I had excellent evidence that she was a –"

"You had absolutely nothing against that poor girl." he interrupted him. "You were just jealous. She was an intern, and she was showing me a slide she'd made for a school thing related to one of my investigations."

"And after checking what we had against her, the agent who made that mistake – you'll know, Gregory, that I'm not responsible for all the actions of the government – corrected it."

He was so bad-faithful, it was terrible. The policeman bit into one of his toasts which made a terrible noise in contrast to the few seconds of silence in the room.

"If you don't want a repeat of such futile mistakes, I invite you to take care who you bring into your office, curtains closed."

"You could stop checking up on me, too, that would solve part of the problem."

Mycroft sniffed as if this prospect was utterly ridiculous. He took a sip of his tea, determined not to admit his wrongdoing in the situation.

"All right, I won't do anything... exaggerated, as you say." the politician obeyed.

Greg closed his eyes, determined to enjoy this small victory. For once he would have the last word with one of the Holmes family members: we had to celebrate.

"Nothing very important." The inspector began by handing a piece of his toast to Mycroft and offering him something to eat. He was not surprised that the latter declined with a simple wave of his hand. "An enquiry yesterday. A very interesting inquiry, indeed, probably I would have spent all night – and all morning – if John had not convinced your brother that it was an 8 and not a 7. Anyway, Sherlock made his deductions, _as usual_ , John tried to translate what he was analyzing from the scene, _as usual_ , they left, without saying a word and without precision, _as usual_ , and... Ah yes, Sherlock sent me a message that I had to go to an address without explaining why, _as usual_. One thing led to another, I tried to intercept the victim's killer, who, as a diversionary tactic, wounded John, and in immobilising the killer, he stabbed me in the leg."

The politician opened his mouth to interrupt him, while Lestrade was chastising the last one as usual that came to mind.

"It's really nothing. " the inspector insisted, preventing the speaker from commenting. "A bandage and everything has been taken care of. Very little blood. I swear to you. The killer is behind bars awaiting the sentence, most likely 20 years, which the judge will give him."

They were silent for a few seconds. Only Greg's chewing noises broke the silence in the room. Mycroft seemed to be handling the policeman's little monologue well, at least only on the surface: the skin of his hand, which now formed a fist, resting on the table was dangerously white.

The silver-haired man reached out his hand to his hand in a reassuring gesture, and he had a small smirk on his face.

"I'm fine."

"No need to repeat. I got it." he retorted in a bitter tone.

"You looked like a statue. You still look like a statue."

The politician's eyes crinkled and stared at the man in front of him.

"Well, since you seem to take such great care that I don't overreact, I try to swallow the comments that come to mind when I hear you tell me that a sick man stabbed you in the leg and you didn't even have the goodness to tell me when you came in last night when you woke me up."

Of course, his little speech had the effect of all the comments he said he wanted to swallow, but the detective inspector did not get up. He didn't have the heart to do so in front of the gloomy look of the man in the suit, and the knot in his stomach grew a little bigger.

If he listened to all the impulses in his body, Greg would have got up from his chair to surround his lover's shoulders to reinforce his desire to reassure him. However, he knew that Mycroft wasn't very affectionate person: his one hand on his was enough for him and the policeman had no desire to make the situation more difficult than it was.

"Mycroft..." Lestrade whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd worry so much. It's trivial, I assure you. In three days, at the most, I won't even need bandages."

"Then you disapprove of my camera surveillance. "articulated the politician.

And although Greg was now wide awake, he had no idea where his companion's thoughts were heading.

"It's _trivial_. The day someone tries to kill you in an alley - and it's certainly not that tiresome Anderson or boring Donovan that's going to save you - you'll be glad I've got men watching you." he concludes as if it were self-evident.

Count on Mycroft Holmes to turn any situation to his advantage.

He had, by the way, a satisfied look on his face as he realized that he had won this battle. The inspector scowled and brought his cup of tea to his lips to prevent himself from retaliating: the situation that would ensue would have no satisfactory outcome for him, he was fully aware of this.

All he had done was to bring one more reason to continue his close surveillance of his person, in the end. Greg wondered if, at bottom, this whole conversation was all about that ultimate goal.

"Of course it didn't." replied the politician to his silent question. "I'm really worried about you, Gregory. I worry about you _all the time_. Every day I'm afraid that dear Doctor Watson will tell me that my stupid brother has brought you into some terrible scheme and some madman has blown your brains out."

Greg's fingers, still on the heel of his companion's palm, became a little more embedded in his skin as he felt the emotion. His words were the closest thing to a statement that any politician had ever said to him.

"I love you too." Lestrade whispered.

There was no need for him to say those three little words as far as the inspector was aware. They were, almost, subtitles to Mycroft's words. Mycroft's cheeks turned pink and his hand turned to grasp the inspector's hand.

"And your scenario applies more to John than it does to me. He's far more likely to blow his brains out than I am following Sherlock."

The politician had a grin, more in control of his body's revealing reactions when it came to rational discussion.

"As if my brother would allow anyone to touch his precious doctor." The chances of such a situation happening in the near future were, according to his calculations, around 23.7% – and this percentage was only present because of the possibility of uncalculated improbability. "Speaking of my brother, how is he?"

"Well, I guess." Greg shrugged. "Our topics of conversation are more about criminal elucidation than his psychological state, thanks God."

"I see." relieved Mycroft, unflappable. "I need you to do something for me. Don't worry, it's nothing. I think you might even find it a... Certain pleasure, I think."

It was worthless. Lestrade frowned at the slightly twisted mouth of the politician's planning air. Outside of a bed – or any surface they were using as such – the two men did not quite have the same definition of pleasure. Greg could easily be happy with an evening spent on his sofa eating popcorn and falling asleep on some television series. Mycroft's barometer of happiness would, no doubt, vary according to how much interest he could take in a situation. The less he could benefit from something, the more likely he was to be bored.

The detective inspector's concern was, then, no doubt well founded.

"That is?" Greg tried to enlighten him.

"I want you to put Sherlock in jail."

Mycroft had trumpeted that phrase as if he had just uttered something as normal as 'I have prevented the outbreak of a third world war between Brazil, Spain and England'. Well, that sentence would only be categorized as normal from Mycroft Holmes.

Greg coughed, spitting out some of his tea, slightly taken aback.

" _What?_ "

"You heard me perfectly well."

"I heard: I want Sherlock put in jail. And that doesn't make any sense, so I must have _really_ misheard."

"You heard me perfectly well." repeated the politician again.

Lestrade blinked and sighed. He tried to find some logic in his companion's words, but to no avail. Then his mind rushed to the only logical explanation he could find.

"I asked you not to overreact."

"What?" Mycroft seemed slightly lost, which was a sight to be seen very rarely. "Oh, Gregory, the world doesn't revolve around you. I'm not asking you this favor to make my brother feel guilty about the stabbing you took. It wouldn't make any sense anyway. No, I'm actually asking you to put him in jail so that I can convince him – or, at best, John will – to show up for our mother's sixty-fourth birthday family dinner next Saturday."

Again, the tone used by the politician made this discussion even more surreal than it already was. The inspector opened his mouth, then closed it again after a few seconds, a little too shocked and unable to make his thoughts completely coherent.

"Wait… _What_?"

"Once again, you heard me perfectly well. Stop it, you know I hate repetition."

"Ok, ok... But why don't you just ask Sherlock to come to this dinner?"

Mycroft chuckled sarcastically. Only his feelings for the inspector prevented him from displaying the most condescending air he would normally have given to anyone with the wrong idea to thwart his plans.

"My brother is everything but an adult, Gregory. If I ask him, he's going to say no, claiming he has something planned, like doing a sordid experiment on flies just to annoy me. If he's in jail, at least I can blackmail him into accepting."

"And you think _that_ 's adult behavior?" raised Lestrade, arching her eyebrow.

The politician glanced at him blackly. The gray-haired man raised his hands to calm the Holmes temperament in front of him.

"Let's say I accept." began the inspector. "I can't put a man behind bars just because Mycroft Holmes asked me to. I need a motive, something."

He had no doubt that it would be very easy to find a motive to motivate the presence of the detective behind these so-called bars – and to find the police officers to make the arrest – but Lestrade was silent. He was a man of integrity, after all.

Admittedly, the inspector did make certain deviations when it came to the public good.

Like letting a sociopath invade a crime scene and let him go with evidence, or using information found on Mycroft's desk to settle an investigation. All in all, nothing too untoward.

"Pick any motive you like." replied the politician, not bothering with the proceedings. "Insults to the DI, for example. It's not as if he does it systematically every time you ask him for help. I bet you'll get help from your team anyway. And, behind bars, he'll have to listen to me. Or John. I think John would be a better choice, don't you think?" The question was purely rhetorical, as he continued without expecting an answer from the inspector. "Yes, John. He might be able to stay in jail if I'm the one to talk to him. Anyway, he'll cooperate and Mother will be very happy."

Mycroft carried his cup to his lips to take the last sip of tea, satisfied with his plan. The legs of the chair scraped the floor as he got up.

The subject completely closed, finally from his point of view, the politician walked towards his companion, walked around the table, and leaned towards the face, which showed a forbidden look, in order to grab Gregory's lips. Slightly baffled by the turn of events, he responded to his lover's reflexive, slightly haggard kiss.

"Have a nice day." Mycroft whispered just inches away from the lips that tasted a mixture of black tea and marmalade.

He kissed him one last time, then with a small contrite smile grabbed her cup and walked to the kitchen.

Greg scrutinized him, wondering if he really wanted to get into a quarrel between the two Holmes brothers. The answer was obviously no. However, apparently it wasn't a multiple-choice question here. It wasn't a question at all. It was a disguised order, plain and simple.

"Keep me posted." Mycroft said, with an innocent air that only Lestrade could have had.

"You know you owe me, don't you?"

"I didn't overreact, as you asked me to, as far as I know."

His onyx gaze lingering on the inspector's leg reminded him of the heated conversation that had taken place a few minutes earlier.

"Thank you very much. But from what I understand, you're going to continue spying on me and you've deprived me of my diary."

" _Oh, come on_."

And this was probably the ultimate proof that Mycroft Holmes was indeed in love with Greg Lestrade: he repressed the dry tone he would normally use. He leaned against the frame of the doorway that separated the dining room from the kitchen and for one of the few times the politician looked uncomfortable.

It was a sight that was not given to everyone, and the inspector got up from his chair to take a closer look at it, so unlikely was it.

"To tell you the truth." began the 'British government'. "I wanted to ask you if you could come with me." Mycroft wringed his hands – _did he really wring his hands?_ "At dinner. At my parents' house."

The inspector's eyes widened, surprised by this new turn of events.

It had now been nine months since Greg had first slept with the government representative in his Scotland Yard office. Curtains closed, of course. Since then he had almost moved into Mycroft's luxury apartment and shared an exclusive relationship with him. If he'd been told of these changes in his life a year earlier, Greg Lestrade would have laughed out loud.

But despite their relationship, which he still described as solid, the politician was not stingy with gestures or words of affection. They spoke very little about their relationship. In fact, Lestrade wondered whether Sherlock even knew of his place in his brother's life. And now he wanted to introduce him to his family?

If he had to get stabbed in the leg to get that kind of attention – _a statement, a proposal to be presented to the Holmes as... Companion?_ – he would do it every day. Without hesitation. After a few seconds, the inspector approached Mycroft and put a third kiss on his lips.

"Well, for this, I may well put Sherlock in prison." Lestrade finally nodded.

The politician had a bright smile on his face. Then he put a finger in his suit pocket to take a look at his mobile phone.

"God's sakes! Between your leg, brother, and... this, I'm going to be really late."

Without further ado, he turned around and entered the kitchen. He put his empty cup on the counter by the sink, put his coat hung on a hanger in the hall closet, and grabbed his eternal umbrella.He took one last look at his companion who was already tidying up the kitchen and left the house.

In the silence of the dwelling, Lestrade could not help imagining the face of Sherlock Holmes being brought by a Sally Donovan, who would most likely be willing to participate, into Scotland Yard Prison. The image was both so comical and very... Satisfactory, in fact. Yes, it was.

Mycroft was right, in the end, he would find some pleasure in it.

.

.

Two hours and minutes later, Lestrade sent a message to John Watson which he would save as a reminder of that memorable moment:

_Talk to Mycroft. And come and get your boyfriend out of prison._

The reply was not long in coming.

**What?! What's he done now?**

**(And he's not my boyfriend.)**


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs Hudson was an angel.

John promised himself that he would tell her as soon as he saw her and that he would remember to do so this time. The landlady had, as usual, left on the kitchen table, between Sherlock's scientific equipment and three organs bathed in an unidentified substance, a cabaret containing two cups of steaming tea and a plate of dry biscuits. The daily attention was widely welcomed after the night the doctor had spent and before the morning that awaited him at the clinic. 

The blond had spent most of the night running after his roommate to stop _The Butcher_. A ridiculous nickname – in Sherlock's opinion – that the media and the police had attributed to this serial killer, who had committed four murders in the previous week, and who had a very bloody modus operandi. He dismembered each of his victims with an axe – the detective noted his surprise that Yard detectives had made the discovery without him, a miracle – and placed the severed limbs at the joints on either side of the crime scene.

Sherlock had argued that the killer was leaving them a message after pointing out the idiocy of the police service – and exclaiming that Christmas this year was in September. John had glared at him to shut out his _joy_ at the boyfriend of the last victim on the list.

Unsurprisingly, his intervention had no effect and he had continued to twirl and dance in delight at the crime scene.

Donovan hadn't let this opportunity go by to claim that he was a real psychopath and she had grumbled something derogatory against the Freak. John, who had never liked the Sergeant, let alone the way she treated Sherlock, had not had the opportunity to tell her exactly what he was thinking: his roommate was already training him to go after the serial killer.

As soon as the Yard had made the arrest, the former soldier had to quickly deal with another problem: he had been stabbed in the right shoulder, under the trapeze, by _the Butcher_ , when John had tried to immobilize him by pinning his arm around his throat. The doctor had, of course, refused to go to the hospital. He had claimed he was perfectly capable of looking after himself.

Surprisingly, it was against his roommate that the 40-year-old had to argue the most and debate the issue. John had discovered that Sherlock could become unbearable – more than usual – and panicky when he was injured.

The blond didn't know exactly what to think or do with this new discovery, but he had to admit that he _appreciated_ it.

All too often, he was the one who cared the most about his best friend's health or moods. John had enjoyed seeing that this kind of torment could be reciprocated, even though managing the detective and taking care of himself at the same time was a colossal task.

The result of that endless night? John had only three hours of sleep when he had to provide a replacement at the clinic, while coping with the pain in his shoulder, his arm in a makeshift splint and pills of lidocaine, a local anesthetic. He was already dreaming about when his shift would end so he could take a nap.

So a simple cup of tea was considered a real blessing this morning.

The doctor's lips were adorned with a smile, which disappeared as soon as he opened the refrigerator door and noticed that the milk carton, left prominently on the highest shelf of the appliance, was _empty_.

He immediately blamed his roommate.

"Sherlock?" the doctor croaked, in a loud, annoyed voice.

He was already walking towards Sherlock's room, milk carton in hand, when a grunt followed by a plaintive sound answered his call.John turned back when he realized that the sound was coming from the living room and not from the detective's room. That this man had a room – _even a bed_ – remained an unsolvable mystery in the doctor's mind. He was constantly lying on that sofa, where he seemed to completely disregard the basic and essential need for sleep.

In reality, Sherlock was a mystery unto himself. John even wondered why he was still puzzled by his friend's actions. He was a mystery unable to run errands or perform a simple household task such as throwing something empty into the garbage, apparently.

As he expected, the detective's tall silhouette was lying on the sofa. Draped in his pyjamas and silk dressing gown, which made him look vulnerable – John had already thought it made him all the more cute before he wondered where this sordid observation came from – Sherlock seemed to be sleeping or bored. The doctor leaned more towards the latter. One of Sherlock's hands was covering his forehead, eyes, and part of his brown curls, while the other was slumped to the ground, palm stretched skyward and fingers slightly curved.

For exactly five seconds, the doctor's eyes locked on that second hand and the insidious and daring idea of intertwining his own phalanges with his own grasped his mind. The thought evaporated as quickly as it had occurred. John tried to build up the impatient air that the discovery of this strange creature had altered.

He let the milk carton drop, without any delicacy, on the sociopath's body. Sherlock was slightly startled when the object touched him. The detective raised his hand, which covered his forehead and eyes, a few millimetres. He looked perplexed for two seconds and then redeposited his palm in the exact position it had previously occupied.

"What?" Sherlock sighed in an almost offended voice.

"The milk carton is empty." the doctor said, in an annoyed tone of voice.

"Your sense of deduction astounds me, John."

Impossible not to notice the blatant note of contempt in his voice.

The doctor didn't care. On the one hand, because he was used to it, and on the other, because he was one of the few people on this Earth – as far as he knew – entitled to a contained expression of contempt. John saw it as a mark of affection, where others might have shouted that he was living with a psychopath or a madman or both.

"Throwing it away was too huge for you?" asked the blond man, who had preferred to avoid the last comment.

"No. Pretty useless. A waste of time. And so was this conversation, for that matter."

"I ask only one thing of you, is to - "

"This conversation could've been avoided perfectly if you'd thrown it away yourself, John. It's absolutely trivial." the detective cut him off, annoyed.

"the detective cut him off, annoyed.

Sherlock even had the audacity to reach out his hand to his chest to grab the bottle and brandish it at his roommate to take it back.

"This conversation could have been perfectly avoided, if you had thrown it away as soon as you had finished it. In the beginning." exasperated John.

He grabbed the milk carton anyway, grudgingly.

"With all this, I don't have any milk to put in my tea." grumbled the ex-military man as he walked away to the kitchen. "Yours, neither, for that matter."

"Your mind is so limited, John." Sherlock commented, in a soul-splitting sigh. "Sometimes I feel it crumbles and decays, instead of levelling up."

With this new comment, the doctor took five seconds to order himself to calm down. He exhaled a stronger exhalation at the end of this process.

"Five seconds, John," observed Sherlock, who had not moved. "You're definitely getting used to me. When we met, it was twenty seconds - I thought your war trauma was so deep that you were trying to kill yourself in that way - then ten, now five.... " He raised one hand in the air for John to put his cup of tea there. " Interesting."

What caught the detective's attention most in the current situation was rather the fact that he had not had to search his Mind Palace or dig into obscure memories in order to unearth this palette of information about John. It was right there, right at his fingertips.

As was everything else about everything about his roommate that was trivial or not. Especially the trivia.

"If you say so." grunted the doctor whose mood hadn't been sunny since this discussion began. "Why my mind is so limited?"

Sherlock emitted a sarcastic giggle, as the blond man brought his cup to him and placed it in the open palm of the lunatic he lived with.

"You're going to drink it without milk?" John asked in the same manner as if he were talking to a child.

"Mrs Hudson must have some." said the detective as the one and only answer to the doctor's two previous questions.

He slowly straightened up to take a sitting position, the cup in a precarious balance, taking care not to spill hot liquid on the sofa or on himself. John had already swung towards the kitchen – probably to escape the insistent gaze of his roommate, who would probably ask him to bring him milk in the next fifteen minutes, at least.

Everything was subject to a long argument with him. There was nothing simple about it.

"She's out."

"And? It wouldn't be the first time one of us broke into her apartment without her being there." Sherlock asserted, impatient.

The sociopath wasn't as unpredictable as he appeared to be. John felt a satisfaction at being one step ahead of his friend's words.

"You know I hate to do this." said the doctor, immediately.

Feeling that he would not get away without retrieving the drink and that he was 95% certain that the detective would not make a move to get it himself, John abdicated and grabbed his coat left on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. His hands patted his trouser pockets and his coat pocket to check if his phone, wallet and keys were in there.

The detective kept his eyes on him, frowning.

"All this drama for milk."

 _All this drama to get a roof over your head, John._ He couldn't help thinking of such a comment when he heard his roommate's words.

"We'll have to go out and buy some at one point. Might as well do it now." said the 40-year-old, who was discovering every minute of that morning an extra level of patience for what he thought he had. "Do you want something else? Bread, I think... Honey? I think the last jar's empty, don't you?"

John had deduced that Sherlock loved honey the moment he found his collection of beekeeping books. Since then, he'd been trying to make sure they had plenty of honey. Of course, the connection between bees and the sweet substance they produced was not scientific enough to infer anything about a person's taste in food. The detective had pointed this out to him repeatedly.

However, the fact that the sociopath really liked honey - and put it in almost every meal he ate - was a major obstacle to his explanation, as the doctor repeatedly pointed out to him. This situation always had a strong tendency to annoy Sherlock.

John had continued to mention a possible grocery list, while his roommate paid no attention to it.

"It's raining," interrupted the detective.

The blond watched him, forbidden, trying to find a link between the rain and the food.

"Take an umbrella." Sherlock added, in response to the former soldier's silent question.

John was shocked. His eyebrows frowned.

Did Sherlock Holmes just have a thought - and say it out loud - that was very pleasant for him? This was a day to mark on the calendar.

Had the comments he was constantly making to his friend to deign to take an interest in the rest of mankind and their feelings paid off?

John sincerely doubted it. The thought helped him to come back from his surprise, and he coughed in order to pull himself together. This attention must have been meant to test him in some way, and as soon as he crossed the threshold of the door, Sherlock would throw himself into a notebook to record all his observations.

Perhaps the milk and tea story was also part of this scientific experiment? The more the doctor thought about it, the more it made sense in his mind.

"And looking like your brother? No, thank you."

"You don't look as stupid as my brother, if that's what you're worried about." Sherlock said, sarcastically. "And, with your wound..."

He excelled, though, at playing the worried friend card. It was almost unsettling. The former soldier opened his mouth, then immediately closed it again.

Then he shook his head to regain some control over the physical responses he was giving Sherlock. John tried to avoid thinking about everything the detective had inferred from the early morning's stormy discussion.

However, since not thinking about something always made the person think about it, his cheeks turned a little pink.

"I'm not made of chocolate." The doctor finally pronounced it. "I can handle a superficial wound."

The detective watched him for three long seconds and simply shrugged his shoulders. John, determined to flee, rushed across the threshold of the apartment.

.

.

As he walked out of the supermarket, John had the feeling that the first symptoms of a headache appeared just as his eyes landed on a long shiny black car.

What had he done to deserve such a day? It seemed to him that sticking with Sherlock was penance enough to purge all the terrible things he had done in a previous life - and even those he thought he might have done in his current life. Apparently not. His karma must have been, really, horrible for him to be forced to also have regular contact with his roommate's older brother.

At the point the doctor was at, he was not surprised that the door opened when he was three meters from the limousine and Anthea - or whatever his first name was - emerged from it. The young woman had her eyes glued to the screen of her phone and didn't look at him as usual.

John didn't even try to argue or try to find an excuse not to get into the impressive car - although he must have had at least twenty-four that came to his mind just by dwelling on it for a few seconds. It was vain and useless. The doctor rushed into the passenger compartment and placed his shopping bag between him and Mycroft's assistant.

She immediately got back into the vehicle and when the door was closed, the limousine started up in a gentle hum.

"So, where are we going today?" he asked as he glanced out one of the car windows.

"he asked as he glanced out one of the windows of the means of transportation.

No answer.His head turned towards her to notice that his fingers were still tapping his phone. John thought about giving her his number so he could get an answer - just once.

"In case anyone is interested, I'm working in forty-five minutes.I'd like to take my shopping to Baker Street and have a cup of tea. »

All he got in response was a smile on Anthea's lips. Might as well dream. The government didn't give a damn about her moods.

.

.

Gregory Lestrade had no difficulty in recruiting help to complete Mycroft's request that morning. The detective inspector only had to say the magic words to Donovan: 'Sherlock must go to prison'. He didn't even need to justify the idea. His team saw the simple phrase as a Christmas present three months early. An unhoped-for revenge for the detective's horrific behaviour.

The D.I. had got hold of a case that seemed unremarkable but interesting enough that it was not unexpected that Sherlock would take an interest in it.

A robbery at a local church. At first glance, there was nothing notorious: the disappearance of sacred objects, a Crucifix that had been removed from a wall and ransacked, and traces of secretions that had been left at the scene of the crime. A signature so that we can be sure to find them.

On the other hand, there was one element in this case that might be of interest to the sociopath: it was the fifth place of worship in London where this type of scene was found in the early morning. Despite all the evidence left at the crime scenes, the robbers had not yet been caught.

Would it be a mystery enough to make Sherlock deign to leave Baker Street?

Lestrade wasn't particularly keen to conduct yet another drug search of the detective and doctor's flat. And this despite the hilarious image that was beginning to imprint itself on his mind of an Anderson finding something horrifying in an incongruous place – a piece of kidney in a cup of tea that had been lying on the kitchen table for two weeks, for example.

However, if there were no other options for his arrest, he would not hesitate to use it.

This is what Lestrade decided when he climbed the stairs leading up to the apartment. He knocked three small knocks on the door, although the door was open and he could see the detective sitting on the sofa backrest, motionless, holding a cup of tea in his hand. Greg felt like he was posing for a painter to paint him.

"The Yard is so incompetent that you can't do without me for a day?" Sherlock asked ironically, without even bothering to turn around or greet him - as he usually does.

Yes, Mycroft was right. It would be easy to arrest him for 'disrespecting a law enforcement official' or something in those waters.

Lestrade giggled nervously.

"I've got something you might be interested in." Greg said. "Are you in"

"You don't think I'm going to follow you just with this pathetic explanation."

Greg pretended to scowl.

"One Church." he announced.

"Not interested."

"A robbery."

"Not my cup of tea." Sherlock rose from the sofa backrest and lifted the cup into his hands with a sneer. "That's the way to say it!"

"A theft of sacred objects..."

"God help us!"

"A ransacked Crucifix."

"Nooooo? They still didn't dare..." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "BORING!" he shouted dramatically.

Lestrade didn't get discouraged.

"Sperm... Blood and... Drool, excrement, I think?"

"You think? "asked the detective, sarcastically. "Disgusting. And easy. Even for you."

"That's the fifth time we've seen a scene like this."

"You guys suck that bad?"

"No security cameras, no witnesses...The secretions we've counted are different at each location."

Sherlock stopped in mid-motion. He rubbed one of his fingers on his chin as he reflected. His face changed from dull - and very uninterested - to a cheerful look.

"Great! "he cried.

Greg felt relief at this response and he restrained a winning motion. Instead, the detective inspector tried to stand still in the face of a Sherlock eagerly lacing his shoes.

"You... Aren't you getting dressed?"

"It certainly doesn't deserve that I get dressed." Sherlock argued.

"Is John not here? "asked Lestrade, who had a sudden hope that the doctor could reason with him.

"Shopping." explained the detective in a cursory manner. "He'll join us. Come on, come on, come on!"

He still took the trouble to grab a navy blue scarf that he tied around his neck and his long coat.

Lestrade watched him. He had raised an eyebrow at this ridiculous painting: Sherlock, in pyjamas and bathrobe, shoes on his feet, long coat and scarf around his neck. Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and gave up trying to convince him to get dressed and pinched his wrist to avoid bursting out laughing.

"Let's go, then... Well, I guess..." Lestrade nodded.

The two men hurried down the stairs and into the detective inspector's car. Sherlock, as he did every time he entered the vehicle, wrinkled his nose as his gaze wandered around. The man with silver hair wondered, this time, what new information the detective had picked up about him.

.

.

When they got out of the car that the D.I. had parked in front of the church, it was raining cats and dogs. Greg laughed at Sherlock's grimace at the weather.

"I think it's raining..." said the Lestrade, amused.

"Please shut up," Sherlock sighed, looking up at the sky and tucking his collar over his neck.

"But what did I say?" he asked, puzzled by the detective's breakneck reaction.

"It's obvious it's raining... Or God is sweating..." he let go in the same way as if he thought he was an idiot - which was indeed the case. "God is sweating... Church... John would be pleased to see my progress in humor."

And Sherlock seemed to be really proud of that, because he was laughing at his own joke.

Lestrade couldn't resist yet another reflection on the interpersonal and social skills of the man who accompanied him and opened his mouth to comment, only to close it again immediately. It was undoubtedly better if he remained silent.

"A new imitation of a fish? Very uninteresting, Geoff."

"Greg." he corrected, automatically, by squeaking.

"Greg, who?"

The detective gave him a blank stare. Sherlock shrugged.

They walked silently through the doorway of the house of worship. The detective's concentration immediately turned to all the elements that assaulted him as he detailed the entire crime scene.

When he didn't have to endure the incessant chatter of Lestrade's team. They seemed to have bequeathed themselves to him to make him lose his patience. More than usual.

Sherlock bitterly regretted not having waited for John to return from his errands before heading to the scene of the crime. John had a knack for pushing away all the annoying people that kept him from working or concentrating. Of course, the doctor was far too kind, he thought, but it worked - and it was unthinkable to imagine John without his eternal kindness, it was so obvious that even Sherlock had noticed it.

So he gnashed his teeth when Officer Forester started talking to him about his diet. He felt like murdering Officer Brown when she made a comment about her dressing gown and she added something about a bra of some kind. He thought he was having a breakdown when Anderson burst into action with his idiotic and unnecessary comments.

It was impossible for him to concentrate for at least two minutes. Unbearable.

"Shut up!" Sherlock cried out in a ferocious voice.

This had the merit of silencing the Church for five seconds.

The detective sent a message text to John to complain and tell him that if he didn't arrive within the next three minutes, he would have a death on his hands.

When he put his phone away, Sherlock saw two officers in the distance moving the Crucifix in an attempt to return it to its original position and reassemble it. The man reached them in great strides, outraged that something he had not yet analysed and inspected could be touched.

"Drop that Crucifix, you're being ridiculous!" the detective said. "It's something you're perfectly comfortable with, being ridiculous, but you don't have to show it to us every second of your life - professional and probably personal!"

The two officers - Officer Brown and another man - looked at him in disbelief. Sherlock heard Lestrade's sigh perfectly well, as he was only a few yards away.

"You." He pointed at the officer, who watched him like a doe trapped in front of the headlights of an automobile. "He pointed at the officer, who watched him like a doe trapped in front of the headlights of an automobile. "You, it's obvious that this robbery stinks in your face. In fact, you come to this church every Sunday with your husband. Very strange, since you're sleeping with your colleague.In fact, you slept at his house last night. Same red cat hair on both your uniforms. Most likely, you thought you were brilliant when you told him that you had a training or something like that to explain that you were sleeping over. But your husband doesn't care, because he's been unfaithful himself since..." Sherlock thinks for a second and a half. "Four years."

Brown escaped a high-pitched noise that was barely contained.

"Sherlock..." warned Lestrade.

"So you are lovers." continued the detective, regardless of the D.I. behind him. "However, you obviously find him mediocre in your sexual relations, but you keep seeing him... An escape, perhaps, from an unhappy marriage, no doubt."

"Sherlock... " persisted the detective, who had come closer, threatening.

The young woman dropped a piece of the Crucifix she still had in her hands, which caused a thud and an echo in the Church. The two officers stared at Sherlock, wounded in their self-esteem, and speechless.

Sherlock didn't care how they felt. His name wasn't _John_ , for God's sake! He had no tolerance or patience for human stupidity.

"As a result, you don't thrive anywhere in your personal life and that reflects on your profession. Can I give you my roommate's phone number? I was told that he was pretty good at helping women... To thrive..." The detective thought that if she asked him, he would give her a fake one. "And, perhaps, will you stop being the dumbest person in this building? You're worst than Anderson, which is very distressing!"

He heard a series of complaints behind him in front of his monologue.

The detective had spotted, without difficulty, Donovan's when he had dared to offer the services - if one could call it that - of John, and Anderson's when he had attacked his intelligence. Sherlock looked up to the sky and turned dramatically.

"Don't tell me this is the first time you've been told you're idiots?"

Three minutes later, Lestrade told him he was under arrest for insulting several police officers.

As if he'd never insulted anyone before. Ridiculous.

.

.

Mycroft was waiting, sitting on a chair, on the second floor of a disused building.

It was most likely a former office building - impossible to be certain without questioning the Holmes family's copy of the building. He had put both hands on the cane of his eternal umbrella and was slightly sprawled forward. He spied on every movement of the doctor as he walked towards him.

When John came up to him, Mycroft moved his hand to invite him to take a seat on the vacant chair in front of him. The forty-year-old refused without saying a word. He stubbornly stood with his arms folded over his chest. An attempt to have a piece of control in the next discussion was about to take place between them.

"Dr Watson, how kind of you to join me."

John sniffed and gave him a stern look.

 _Don't play games with me, Mycroft_. The doctor might as well have worn a luminous poster where this slogan would have been written in calligraphy without any subtlety: it would have had the same effect. The 'British government' burst out laughing.

"How's your arm?" he asked.

The sincerity on the face of the eldest Holmes elder stunned him.

"Good," he replied frowning, uncertain. "Nothing serious."

"Nothing serious..." repeated Mycroft. "You men have a way of implying that an injury is a matter of nothing." he sniffed.

John wondered for a few seconds if Sherlock's brother included himself in the 'you, men'.

"A ferocious criminal you've got there." he continued.

The doctor suddenly smiled an amused smile as he understood the text underlying Mycroft's words.

"I can see that you didn't appreciate Greg getting hurt." guess John, amused.

"Guess John, amused.

The blond had understood the existence of the relationship between the two men when Lestrade had dropped a comment about borrowing keys belonging to Mycroft during a case. Sherlock had, of course, paid no attention to this irrelevant information at the time it was revealed.

John was convinced that this information would be considered irrelevant to his friend forever.

So, he had decided not to tell him in order to conduct his own personal experiment on his roommate: to determine how long the detective would ignore the blatant relationship between the D.I. and his brother. Until now, the doctor was certain that he didn't suspect anything - or if he did, he hid it very well.

"As if I could be happy about that..." he whistled, stung.

The doctor shook his head.

"Aren't you tired of sending a limousine to pick me up every time you want to talk to me about Sherlock?" sighed John, who had decided to return to the main subject. "You know, I have a phone."

"I know. I even have your number." replied the man in front of him in an aristocratic tone of voice that made one think that all he could say was a horrible piece of evidence.

The former militant was sure that he had never given him any contact information.Why on earth was he still surprised at Mycroft's lead over the whole crowd?

"I appreciate you talking, John. You're so..." he continued, imperturbable.

John's jaw contracted, while apprehending the hurtful comment that was bound to come out of that mouth.

"Simple." he finished in a slurred voice, after observing him back and forth with curiosity. "Sometimes, I even wonder what Sherlock finds so interesting about you..."

The doctor wondered how he managed to keep an impassive look on his face.

"Did you bring me here just to discuss the day-to-day reasons why Sherlock keeps me as a roommate?"

"Roommate..." repeated Mycroft, incredibly amused. "Interesting word."

The government official seemed to detect something amusing in his own words as he smiled - an amusement that was not shared by John. He became a little more gruff, if that was possible.

A phone ringing from the blond man's trouser pocket. He grabbed it in order to read another message from Sherlock. The doctor had already received three of them as the car drove from the supermarket to the building from him, who was urging him to join him.

_I'm going to commit murder, if you don't get there in the next three minutes - SH_

_You'll have it on your mind and you won't be able to blame me - SH_

John was unable to hold a smile to his lips.

He jumped when he saw the time on his phone.

"Mycroft, can you make it shorter? I'm working in ten minutes now."

The government representative responded only with a grin.

"How did my brother react to your injury?"

"What?" John gasped, wondering about the direction of the conversation.

"Sherlock." he articulated slowly - and ridiculously - so that every syllable was perfectly clear. "How did Sherlock react to your injury? Badly, I imagine."

John's eyes narrowed to almost two slits.

"I wouldn't say 'badly'... " muttered the former soldier.

"So, what word in the lexical field of the word 'badly' would you use, then, John?"

John had rarely heard Mycroft's voice so condescending. Mycroft glanced at the heel of his shoe in boredom. He looked like a teacher who would give a student extra minutes to perfect his reasoning - or to understand the material being explained.

In this case, however, a minute or two of silence would not change the fact that the doctor was swimming in total incomprehension.

"That's what I thought. Obviously, you lack foresight. Not surprisingly, forgive me, John, for overestimating your intelligence and placing too high hopes in you." commented Mycroft.

The man had a real gift for giving him a rash.

"Sherlock developed a strong attachment to you. You should be aware of that by now. It was more than obvious. So, I'd like you to use this... relationship you have with him to convince him to--"

"What are you talking about, Mycroft? Relationship? Attachment? " cut him off, John, who could barely grasp what the government official was telling him.

Mycroft seemed to be doing everything in his power to hold back the sigh that burned his lips.

"Yes, of course he did. Don't tell me you didn't realize it?" he laughed in a way that implied he didn't find it funny, but rather ridiculous. "I'd like you to help me convince him to--"

"What kind of relationship are you talking about, for God's sake? »

"Stop interrupting me, and perhaps I can finally explain?" Mycroft became irritated, while abruptly banging his umbrella against the ground.

John was startled by the gesture and cleared his throat. He was about to make a quick nod when his phone ringed in the room again. The doctor waved his hand to tell Mycroft to be patient - which instantly made him wince.

Mycroft Holmes waited for no one.

Obviously, he had little choice since John had already taken the device out.

The blond frowned when he read the message from Lestrade.

 _Talk to Mycroft. And get your boyfriend out of prison_.

What the hell did he do now?

John thought back to the messages Sherlock had sent him and a wave of panic gripped him. Of course, he knew full well that the detective wouldn't try to kill someone - or at least not for a good reason. However, he knew what his friend could be like when he lost his patience.

Lestrade had already mentioned to him that it was easier to deal with the detective's uncompromising behaviour in John's presence. This remark had made him feel like Sherlock's safeguard: the element that kept impending disasters from happening.

**What?! What's he done now?**

Then John added, in a hurry, in another message: **(And he's not my boyfriend.)**

Clarification of his status with his roommate seemed to have become of paramount importance in the face of Mycroft's insinuations and Lestrade's remark. It was far too much insinuation for one morning - and John was used to it.

Sherlock Holmes was his roommate. His friend. His best friend, even. His partner - in the sense of colleague, obviously. No more than that.

"Can I ask why Lestrade just sent me a message that Sherlock's in prison?" John exploded.

"Ah, perfect." he gets as an answer. "Faster than I could have hoped for, though."

The tone of his roommate's brother had become so... In love, in the face of his companion's exploits, it puzzled the doctor. And, he grimaced.

"I want you to help me convince Sherlock to come to our mother's birthday dinner."

"And the prison connection is..." John urged him.

"Blackmail, of course. " he replied as if it were the most obvious thing on Earth.

"Don't you think if you just ask him to attend, he might say yes?"

The death of his patience was by no means a euphemism at John's stage.

"Are we talking about the same Sherlock Holmes? I forgot you're a natural optimist, my dear John."

The doctor's patience ran out.

"Dinner is at 7:00 on Saturday night." Mycroft informed him, as if it was obvious that John would convince the lunatic detective. "You are obviously invited. Mum wants to get to know our... Partners. »

"I'm not--"

"Gay?" completed his interlocutor. "We all understood him. You must repeat it, at least, six times a day." sighed Mycroft as if it exasperated him. "I imagine your presence might persuade my dear brother to come."

The doctor had no idea that his presence alone would convince Sherlock to do anything. Still, one shouldn't dream in color.

"I never agreed to convince him." he resolved to formulate.

Mycroft stood up and crossed his arms behind his back, his umbrella perpendicular to his long stature. The aristocratic features of the 'British Government' looked haughty and almost amused. 

"And leave Sherlock in prison? You're hardly your type. After all, you're the most loyal person I know. Why do you think I specifically sent my brother to prison?" He had a chuckle. "For the rare occasion you don't play the part of the damsel in distress, John..."

The ex-military man gave him a murderous look.

"One day, I'm going to hit you." promised the blond man.

And, he turned and walked away from the room, while Mycroft allowed himself a bright smile. The man was a man of unimaginable pride. It was a real attraction talking to this man. He understood his brother a little better for not being able to let go of him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've ventured into Sherlock's fandom, so please be gentle. I hope you liked it and I'll quickly follow up. Full love!


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